The Rogue's Return

by Jo Beverley

  But Simon talked about what had been happening while she was ill. “We’re making excellent time. Stoddard says we might make the crossing in under a month.”

  “It might be half over?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was I the only one sick?”

  “Not at all. I think we all were, especially in one major storm, but only you, Dacre, and the colonel suffered badly.”

  “I don’t think I noticed a storm. Or I imagined it part of my hell.”

  He covered her hand with him. “Poor love. Do you want to keep Grace as a maid for the rest of the voyage? She’d have to sleep below, but she could come up by day.”

  “No.” Grace had probably told Simon all she’d heard, but if there was a way to get her off the ship without cruelty, Jancy would have paid every penny she owned to do it. “I don’t need a maid. I’m not used to one, and she is somewhat rough.”

  He looked more relieved than disappointed, thank heavens.

  “So is all harmony,” she asked, “or have factions and fractures developed?”

  “Harmony. Despite mal de mer, everyone’s in good spirits. We have a fishing competition going.”

  “Who has?” she asked, suddenly blissful to be back, to be talking with Simon again.

  “The gentlemen, though some of the sailors fish in their off time. We’ve run into a school of tunny fish. Enormous creatures, but the young can be about twenty pounds. We’re competing to see who can catch one and bring it in.”

  The door opened and Reverend Shore staggered in, muffled up in a greatcoat, enormous scarf, and a well-pulled-down hat. He gave Jancy a sour look and disappeared into his cabin.

  “How is Norton coping with sharing with him?” she murmured.

  “Easily, I think. He’s no trouble to anyone.”

  The clergyman appeared with one of his journals and paper and sat again to his work. Simon asked, “Do you want to take the air?”

  Jancy did, but she was already feeling exhausted. Kirkby came out of the cabin then and announced it was ready, so she said she wanted to lie down for a little.

  As soon as she entered her room, however, a foul smell hit her. The room was clean and the beds freshly made. The smell came from Grace Pitt.

  What to do?

  Grace had probably enjoyed being up here. Despite the dangers the woman presented, perhaps she should keep her on out of charity.

  She put on a cheerful manner and asked, “Would you like a bath, Grace?”

  The woman reared back. “What? I’d catch me death!”

  “I just bathed, and I feel much better for it.”

  “Time’ll tell, won’t it? Rotten bad for the skin, bathing is, and in winter, it’ll kill yer!”

  Jancy could have pointed out that it wasn’t winter yet, but it would do no good. If Grace wouldn’t bathe, she had to go.

  She knew Simon would get rid of her if she wished, but she was a married woman. Dealing with servants was her job, especially the female ones. Shaking inside, she said, “You’ve been a great help to me, Grace. I’m sure my husband has paid you, but I’d like to give you a little extra.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Like that, is it?”

  “Like what?”

  “Now you’ve no use for me, you want rid of me.”

  Though her mouth was dry, Jancy said, “I no longer have need of you, Grace.”

  “You need someone to help you dress, do your hair and such. Ladies do.”

  Jancy gestured to her hair and gown. “I’m quite used to taking care of myself, as you see.”

  She turned away from more confrontation and opened the chest. As she took out her knitted purse, she realized how easy it would have been for Grace to steal from it. Her money seemed all there, however, and she was ashamed of her suspicions.

  She rose, took a guinea out of her purse, and offered it. “Thank you.”

  Grace’s eye sparkled at sight of the gold, but as the coin disappeared into her dirty bodice, she gave Jancy a sneering look. “You’re no true lady. Anyone can tell that.” With that salvo, she marched out of the cabin.

  Jancy stared at the door, telling herself that parting shot had meant nothing. Grace couldn’t possibly suspect the truth. Nor would she make anything of the things she’d heard. Despite the cold, she opened the porthole to air out the room and then lay under the covers for warmth, but also like a small creature burrowing for safety.

  She couldn’t lose Simon. She couldn’t bear it.

  She fell into a doze, to be woken by his kiss. “It’s nunch time. You should try to eat a little more.”

  “I do feel empty.”

  She climbed out and moved into his arms. “I’ve missed you so,” she said, resting against his chest.

  “And I you. No more sea travel for you, Jancy St. Bride.”

  She looked up at him. “I don’t want to trap you on an island.”

  He smiled. “A smaller one than Britain would be ample, love, when I’m with you.”

  “For me, too.” The bell rang for the meal and she moved apart from him. “All steady.”

  She went to the mirror to check that her hair was still in order. It was, but in such a simple style. Grace’s words stuck in her mind. “Will I ever be a true lady?”

  “You are a true lady.”

  She turned to him. “You’re bound to say that.”

  “My love, I’ll try always to be honest with you. You are a lady and my wife, but yes, your appearance must change. I hope you’ll spend a great deal on pretty clothes and accept a skilled lady’s maid to assist you with them.”

  “I’m good with my needle.” It was only half a tease.

  “But you won’t be able to make everything. A true lady has many demands on her time.”

  He’d said exactly the right thing and she didn’t think it was calculated. Unlike her own words, which were always weighed to the ounce.

  “I dismissed Grace Pitt.”

  “I’m not surprised. I’m sorry. There wasn’t much choice.”

  “She did all that was necessary, and heaven knows I was noisome enough company. I paid her off. A guinea. Probably too much.”

  “She had been paid.”

  “I guessed as much, but it seemed mine to do.”

  “Because you’re my wife.” He touched her cheek. “It’s been an unsettled marriage thus far, hasn’t it? I promise smooth sailing from here.”

  “Really?” she challenged.

  He laughed. “No, I can’t drive away storms, but you won’t be sick again, will you?”

  “I pray not.”

  “No miraculous maggots? No folk remedy for mal de mer?”

  “As Dr. Playter said, if I knew of anything, don’t you think I’d have used it?”

  He dropped his teasing. “I’m sorry. I forgot about your cousin. Nan, wasn’t it?”

  It struck like a blow that he not be sure.

  “Now I’ve said entirely the wrong thing. Jane, I’m sorry. I forgot how much she meant to you.”

  She found a smile. “It’s all right. You can’t help it. You never knew her.”

  “Then why not tell me about her?”

  Jancy wanted to talk about Jane, so much it blossomed as agony in her heart, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t speak the truth, and she couldn’t bear to spew lies to Simon. She was going to burst into tears.

  “My love, my love, I’m sorry.” He drew her into his arms. “I’m a clumsy oaf. We’ll visit Carlisle. You can show me where you both played. Your favorite spots. Your old friends. Your mother’s grave . . .”

  Jancy screwed her eyes shut but wanted to moan. How had she ever thought she could carry this off? “I’m sorry. I’m weak still. I think I’d better go back to bed.”

  “Of course.” He helped her to lie down. “I’ll have some food sent to you. Do try to eat.”

  Jancy lay there with her hands over her face. How could she live like this, having to lie to Simon again and again and again? Never able to talk honestly about Jan
e. Never able to relax. Could love survive that? She wasn’t sure she could.

  The steward knocked and brought a tray. She asked him to put it on the chest, unable to imagine eating.

  She kept to her room that day, and whenever Simon came in to check on her, she pretended to be asleep. When he came to bed, he “woke” her.

  “I’m sorry, Jane, but I’m not sure you should be sleeping so much. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Looking into his concerned eyes, guilt and love brought tears to her eyes again. He gathered her into his arms and rocked her. “Hush, my love, hush. I can’t bear to see you cry.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just so tired. I think I’ll be better tomorrow.”

  He stroked her cheek and kissed her. “I pray so. I want my strong, spirited Jancy back.”

  For him, she would fly to the moon. “She will be.”

  “Tomorrow?” he asked, his eyes telling her what he really wanted.

  She found the strength to play the game. “Perhaps. If you’re very, very good.”

  “Oh, I will be. I promise.”

  He undressed, deliberately leaving the candle lit, and desire overwhelmed even fear. She held out her hands to him and he came to her. “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes. Love me, Simon.”

  As he slipped into bed beside her and took her into his arms, her need for him, need in every way, was as palpable as the urgent beating of her heart. She turned the lock firmly upon truth. Nothing would ever come between them.

  After breakfast the next day Simon insisted that Jancy take some air on deck. Mrs. Ransome-Brown protested that it was too cold, but Jancy declared herself desperate for fresh air. She dressed warmly in both a long pelisse and a waist-length cloak. With a firmly tied-on bonnet, warm gloves, and her muff, she was ready for the elements.

  The wind hit brisk and icy, but she laughed with delight. “Oh, that feels wonderful!” She tilted her head back farther and saw a sailor high in the rigging. “I don’t know how they can bring themselves to do that.”

  “A head for heights,” he said. “Should I confess that I climbed up to the crow’s nest on the voyage out?”

  She turned a frown on him. “You’re not to do it this time.”

  “Or you’ll whip me with horses’ tails?”

  She fought a smile. “No, with ribbons and silken thread. And I, sir, do have some of those in my luggage.”

  He wriggled his brows. “I can’t wait.”

  Laughter escaped and she turned away to look out at the silver sea, trying not to think of how deep it was, and how frail even a ship like the Eweretta was by comparison. Simon came up behind her and put his arms around her, resting his head against hers. She felt warm, safe, and perfectly content.

  “I missed you so much, love. Despite all the strife, we’ve hardly been apart since our wedding. If I have my way, we will never be apart again.”

  She covered his hands with her own. “That sounds perfect.”

  He rubbed his head against hers. “Who was the other Jane? The one you fretted about. Tell me, love. I want to share all your sorrows.”

  Quicksands sucked at her feet.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jancy fought tears. Why now, at this idyllic moment? Eyes closed, she produced her lie. “A childhood friend. She drowned.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Some force led her to turn and elaborate, as if a complex lie was less wicked than a simple one. “She drowned in the river. In Carlisle. We’d slipped away from home and were playing at the edge, trying to catch sticklebacks. She fell in. I screamed for help. Some men dragged her out.”

  Then some truly demented force took control. “They were Hasketts. Nobody likes Hasketts. Decent people, I mean. I suppose Hasketts like Hasketts.” She was babbling and couldn’t stop. “They’re dirty and thieving, but they were kind to me. They tried to save her. But she died.”

  She stood there, appalled, but deep inside a part of her was bubbling to be able to speak a truth about her childhood family.

  They were kind to me.

  They would try to save a child from drowning.

  In their own Haskett way, they were good people.

  She’d fallen into the Abbey Street way of seeing things—if people were footloose and dirty, they had to be wicked. But she knew now that it wasn’t true. Not in the real sense of wicked. Not as clean, home-owning McArthur had been wicked.

  How could she not have known how strangling her long denial had been?

  “I’m sorry,” Simon said. “That’s obviously still a very distressing memory.” He took her gloved hand. “A friend of mine, a cousin, died. We were eight, not six, but playing. Simply playing in a hayloft. He fell. A rotten ladder shattered and—he was impaled. I’ve seen many other deaths, but I will never forget that one.”

  Jancy gripped his hand. “Oh, Simon, I’m so very sorry.” She meant it in more ways than one. His painful memory was true and hers was an entire fabrication.

  He smiled. “It was long ago. Then he looked beyond her and turned her. “The tunny are back!”

  A huge silvery blue shape arched out of the water, then another, and another. Simon took her hand. “Come on. Hal and Norton are fishing on the other side.”

  They ran around the longboat to where Hal and Norton were fishing. Or rather, to where they were leaning against the rail in conversation while holding the wooden frames around which fishing line was wrapped, the rest of it trailing in the water.

  “Wake up, you two,” Simon said. “They’re back.”

  The two men took a firmer grip on their frames. A memory popped into Jancy’s head. Playing with similar frames—a hand line it was called. Children whiling away summer afternoons dangling their lines into streams. The best she ever remembered cathching was a useless little gudgeon. They hadn’t been allowed to play where they might catch trout, salmon, or pike. That was poaching territory. Hasketts might use their children for begging, but they guarded them from serious trouble with the law.

  Hal shouted as his hand line jerked and he began to turn it with his wrist, reeling in the taut line. Simon rushed to help. Jancy wondered if Hal might object, but he was grinning as they worked together. Then it snapped, staggering them both backward.

  “Too big,” Simon said, grabbing a new hook and a piece of meat. He fixed it to the line and Hal let it down into the water again.

  Jancy hung over the rail, watching the great fish flicker beneath the water and sometimes leap out. “They’re all too big.”

  “There are small ones,” Simon said. “The colonel caught one yesterday.” His attention was on the water and the line, but she didn’t mind. Not at all.

  Abbey Street might not have taught her much about men, but her Haskett days plus her time with Isaiah had. This was Simon’s ordinary life, enjoying sport with friends, and she wanted it for him. Ordinary life for both of them. Surely that wasn’t too much to ask?

  Colonel Ransome-Brown rushed out with his son to try to catch another fish. Dacre was close behind. Even Reverend Shore emerged to observe. Bait was snatched, but lines snapped. Then Norton began to reel one in.

  “I think I can handle this one!” he cried, gritting his teeth as he fought the fish and the fish fought back.

  It flashed out of the water, big and strong, but tiny by tunny standards. Perhaps only a couple of feet long. That was big enough for a fierce fight, however, and the men gathered to help as Norton slowly hauled it in. The colonel reached over with a big hook to help bring it over the side. Norton slammed the fish on the head with a mallet to kill it.

  Everyone, including the sailors and even the captain, let out a mighty cheer.

  That evening, the whole ship enjoyed the results. The cook baked the tunny over a fire on the deck, and it was quite meaty, not like the fish Jancy was used to, but delicious. She made sure Grace Pitt and her family weren’t forgotten in the treat. The captain proposed a toast to the fish and the hero who’d caught it. They all raised their
glasses and Captain Norton colored, but with pride.

  Talk turned to ports of arrival. The Eweretta’s destination port was London, but it had already been arranged that she would put in to Plymouth to let off Mr. Shore, whose sister lived nearby, and Simon and his party, in order to visit Lord Darius.

  Jancy asked the captain, “Why do so many ships sail around to London? Why not use western ports such as Plymouth or Bristol?”

  “Transportation, ma’am. There’s the old saying ‘All roads lead to Rome,’ but today, all roads lead to London. Now, it’s different if goods are going to or from the west or north; then Bristol, Liverpool, or even Glasgow are more appropriate.”

  “Sailed from Glasgow outbound,” Dacre said. “We’d be sailing back there if not for commissions in London.”

  “We sailed from Glasgow, too,” Jancy said.

  “We?” asked Mrs. Ransome-Brown. Why did the woman always seem so suspicious? Was dull clothing a sign of sin in her eyes?

  “My wife traveled with a cousin,” Simon intervened, “who sadly died. I mentioned her when Jane was sick.”

  “Ah, yes, you were both Miss Otterburn at the time.”

  Lionel Dacre exclaimed, “Otterburn! Never say you’re old Otter Otterburn’s daughter, Mrs. St. Bride? Little Janey? But of course you must be. That’s why you look familiar.”

  Jancy stared at him, straining to keep a smile on her face.

  Was this it, then?

  Here, in public, where she was trapped by the endless ocean?

  Say something.

  But he chattered on. “You won’t remember me, of course.” He laughed. “You were a young thing when I went on to Sedbergh.”

  Of course she had been. Or Jane had been. Jane had been only ten when her father died and the school was sold. At that time, Jancy was still with the Hasketts.

  Breathe.

  “You and your mother attended prayers each morning,” he reminisced. “I remember your pretty hair. I did hear about Dr. Otterburn’s death. My condolences. I say, I hope you didn’t mind my using that old nickname. Schoolboy nonsense.”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  Jancy was still braced for the ax to fall, but he started to tell stories about her father that needed no input from her at all. A reprieve, but she bleakly knew that execution was still likely. Inevitable, even.